


The Creation of Ryan

by ssswampert



Category: Rooster Teeth/Achievement Hunter/Funhaus RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Grand Theft Auto Setting, Trans Character, Trans Ryan
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-11-09
Updated: 2015-11-09
Packaged: 2018-04-30 20:07:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,049
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5177996
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ssswampert/pseuds/ssswampert
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"I’m Ryan, and I think I finally like myself.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Creation of Ryan

**Author's Note:**

> Other than what little bit of notes I have, I honestly don't know much about this story.
> 
> Only sure things I can tell you without spoiling are: Ryan's trans. Ray's trans. Jack's trans.
> 
> I don't know what ships this is gonna have, and I'm working out a plot. The tags will update when I have more of an idea of what's going on. :'D
> 
> Anyways--enjoy!

In Los Santos, nobody could stop him from being Ryan. In Los Santos nobody could make him go by the name he never wanted to hear again. In Los Santos nobody would get onto him for wearing loose, baggy clothing, “like a lesbian, honey, wear those dresses I bought and show off the beautiful body God gave you,” and nobody would bother him about grabbing his ponytail at the base and hacking at it with his pocket knife until it came away, messy and uneven.

 

Nobody could stop him from wearing a rubbery skull mask to hide the soft curve of his jaw and nobody could make him talk, only to reveal the voice that’s way too feminine for how he feels (He feels much more scary when he’s silent and nobody can see his expressions, anyways).

 

Another thing is that nobody could stop him from holding up a convenience store if he really fuckin' wanted to.

 

And he really fuckin' wanted to.

 

So he tucked a gun into the waistband of his jeans and a knife in his jacket pocket and pulled the mask over his face and left the shitty hotel he was staying in. The convenience store was a bit of a walk, but Ryan didn’t care. He wanted the adrenaline that came with robbing a store.

 

The first time he’d had a taste of that particular brand of adrenaline was when he first got to Los Santos from Villanow, Georgia. He’d used the last of his cash to get there in the first place, and needed more to check into the hotel he’d booked.

 

And what a place that was. The Ah Chew Hotel. Cheapest place he could find on short notice.

 

Ryan dropped the duffel bag onto the counter of the convenience store and peeled it open. The gaping maw of canvas stared up at the cashier and Ryan waited expectantly.

 

The cashier burst out laughing and gripped the counter. “Really? Not even a threat? That’s _it_?” So Ryan pulled out his knife and flicked it open. That didn’t help. “Look, dude, my pinky finger is a sharper knife than that. Get outta here before I call the cops.”

 

Ryan flipped the knife and slammed it point first in between the cashier’s fingers. “Didn’t think I needed one.” God, he hated talking. “Thought the bag was a clue enough to what I wanted.” He let go of the knife to cross his arms over his chest.

 

The cashier flicked his eyes over Ryan’s frame. “You ain’t even a dude. Sorry, miss. I didn’t realize.”

 

That was the last straw. Ryan pulled the gun from the waistband of his jeans and flicked the safety off. “Is this enough of a threat?” He aimed it between the cashier’s eyes and cocked it. Judging by the way the cashier swallowed hard and opened up the register, it was threat enough.

 

“H-how much, ma’am? A-all of it?” the cashier stammered. Ryan shot him.

 

He wasn’t a woman, no matter how his voice sounded or what his body looked like. Ryan grumbled to himself as he slipped around the cash wrap to empty out the register himself. He hated getting mistaken for a woman, and he couldn’t shake how wrong it felt.

 

“Hey, Boss? Yeah, it was definitely this one the gunshot was from,” another voice spoke up from the doorway. Ryan lifted his head--standing just inside the store was a person with a leather jacket and a hand to his ear.

 

Ryan aimed his gun and cocked it again.

 

“Look, buddy, you don’t wanna do that,” the person said, pulling a gun twice as big from the pocket of his jacket and pointing it right back at Ryan. He stepped closer and Ryan darted his eyes to the gun. The safety was still on. “Take off the mask for me?” he asked.

 

Ryan shook his head.

 

“Okay, we’ll leave it on. You gotta name?”

 

“Ryan.” He’d been hesitant to speak, but better give the name he’d picked for himself when he left his hometown than get shot.

 

“Ryan, my name’s Michael. Never seen you around before. You new to Los Santos?” Michael asked carefully, edging closer. His thumb crept towards the safety on his gun. Ryan never lowered his.

 

Ryan nodded.

 

“Why’d you shoot the guy?” Michael gestured with his gun.

 

“Called me miss,” Ryan said. “Not a miss.”

 

“Yikes.” Michael grimaced. “Good thing, then. Don’t want no misgendering assholes runnin’ around this shithole of a city. We got enough pieces of shit to deal with that don’t bring gender into the mix.”

 

Ryan hesitated.

 

“‘M serious, Ryan,” Michael said, still careful. “Don’t like it when others get misgendered.”

 

“Why are you here?” Ryan cut to the point. “Are you going to call the cops?”

 

Michael snorted. “Nah,” he dismissed easily. “Was just drivin’ by after work,” he grinned raucously, “and heard the gunshot.”

 

Ryan felt the ‘after work’ paired with a grin of that caliber hinted at something he should have understood, like he should have known something he didn’t. He lowered his gun.

 

“So, Ryan,” Michael called, tucking his gun back into his jacket and turning on his heel, “watch the news when you get home. Might just see a familiar face.” And with a wink, Michael left Ryan standing behind a register, confused and clutching a dufflebag full of cash with one hand.

 

\---

Ryan didn’t see any familiar faces on the news at first; just reporters talking about Maze Bank being broken into at the same time as Fleeca and Union.

 

“Today at four fifty-seven PM, members of the Fake AH Crew were seen entering three banks in Los Santos and causing enough havoc to distract while they robbed the vaults. Again.” The reporter shuffled papers and folded her hands on the desk. Security footage with “PROPERTY OF MAZE BANK” scrolling across the bottom and a time-stamp in the top corner flashed up on screen. One figure--the one in a tux--headed straight for the back while the other--one in a vaguely familiar brown leather jacket--stayed up front, in full view of the security camera.

 

What he said in the footage went unheard, but it was apparently enough to send everyone in view of the security camera to their feet. Michael turned and made over-exaggerated kissy-faces at the camera.

 

The rifle in his hands sent Ryan’s heart into his throat. He’d gotten off easy, if Michael showed up to the convenience store he’d robbed after this where he’d had that.

 

And anyways, after having to shoot the cashier over not being threatening enough, he was going to have to learn to be scarier. The next time he ran into Michael, he hoped to have a better reputation.

 

\---

 

The next time he ran into Michael he’d been working on his own long enough to build up at least somewhat of a reputation, and Michael let him know that.

 

“Here.” Ryan tossed a Ziploc baggie holding a couple of fingers at him. “Sorry about your informant.”

 

“Is this all that’s left of ‘im?” Michael asked, eyebrows climbing towards his hairline. Ryan shrugged, made a so-so gesture, and then nodded. “ _Damn_ , son. You take care of people this cleanly? I’m gonna have to introduce you to the boss.”

 

Ryan hesitated.

 

“Don’t worry.” Michael cut into the silence that stretched between them. “We could use someone as scary as you.”

 

“I’m scary?”

 

“Hell yeah, dude, you haven’t heard the stories they tell about you?”

 

Ryan shook his head. The world tilted a bit, then just as quickly righted itself.

 

“If I didn’t know you’d shot a guy _just_ for misgendering you and you handed me a baggie of fingers, I’d be scared shitless!”

 

The heat of the warehouse they were in had a bead of sweat rolling down the side of his face under the mask.

 

“Hey, I mean, I could introduce you to the boss now, if you want,” Michael offered, gesturing with the baggie of fingers. “This is our warehouse--he’s probably here.”

 

Ryan shook his head quickly. He hadn’t showered in days; his hair was greasy and he probably smelled, and the sweltering warehouse wasn’t helping. Vaguely he wondered how Michael could be wearing the jacket. He swayed a bit on his feet.

 

“Dude,” Michael sounded hesitant, cautious. Wary, almost. Maybe something was wrong behind him. “You alright?”

 

\---

“--Is this who you’ve been talking about? What’s his name, Ryan?”

 

Ryan couldn’t feel his mask. The cool weight of a damp washcloth over his eyes instead was a relief from the heat of the warehouse, however. His throat was _killing_ him, and his head pounded with every footstep that brought the voices closer.

 

“Yeah, Jack. He just fuckin’ fell out in the warehouse last night. What was I gonna do? Leave ‘im?”

 

“Aw! My little boi has a conscience!” A third voice piped up, followed by a dull thud and a gurgling squawk.

 

He wanted to stay quiet; wanted to see what else they had to say about him, Michael and Jack and this, this, this other voice. A cough erupted out of him instead, forcing him to sit up and curl an arm around his face to muffle the noise in the crook of his elbow. The washcloth plopped onto the blanket spread across his lap.

 

“Hi.” A heavyset woman with vibrantly red hair smiled gently at him. “How’re you feeling?”

 

“Where the fuck’s my mask?” he croaked. He hoped the look of surprise at how raspy his voice had become wasn’t apparent. With the mask he hadn’t needed to learn how to school his expressions.

 

Michael stooped, picked it up off the coffee table in front of him, and flung it at Ryan. “Answer Jack’s fuckin’ question. She--just like me, obviously--is your gracious host. Show some goddamn respect.”

 

Ryan clutched his mask to his chest and glared Michael down. “I feel like shit,” he muttered, annoyed at Michael’s come on already gesturing. “You didn’t _have_ to bring me wherever the hell this is,” he shot next, dropping his arms and fidgeting with the edge of the rubber.

 

Michael snorted. “And leave you passed out in the warehouse? Man, I barely know you but fuck if I’ll do that.” His glare shifted from Ryan to the other person in the room at a poorly muffled giggle.

 

“Who is that,” Ryan deadpanned. If he was going to be here, he was going to know names. He picked up the washcloth and slung it over the back of his neck. It felt heavenly.

 

“That’s my boi, that’s Gavin.” Ryan could tell that Michael was never really mad at Gavin by the tiny smile starting to peek through the glower.

 

“What time is it?” Another question. Ryan was trying to gauge how long he’d been in an unfamiliar place. Some part of him was glad he didn’t strike down whoever had been closest when he regained consciousness. Jack, who was closest, shifted her weight. Michael jerked a thumb over his shoulder at the clock on the wall behind him.

 

10:03 AM.

 

Ryan had been asleep on an unfamiliar couch for _seventeen hours_.

 

No, scratch that, he _passed out in an unfamiliar warehouse_ , was carried _who-knows-how-far away from said warehouse_ , and spent _as far as he knew_ seventeen hours on an unfamiliar couch.

 

He should have been watching himself better.

 

“You thirsty, hun?” Jack asked him, catching him off-guard enough to stop his self-defense planning. “I want to give the poor thing a fucking haircut, it looks like he did it with a knife,” she directed, half under her breath, to Gavin.

 

He _had_ done it with a knife. But a haircut sounded great. He cleared his throat. Jack looked back at him, guilt splashed across her face because he’d heard her. “I’m very thirsty,” he said instead of asking for the haircut.

 

Jack was very open for a member of a gang in Los Santos, but all it did was make Ryan want to trust her. He assumed it was a carefully-constructed facade, but the way Gavin and Michael (as far as Ryan had seen) treated her, it didn’t seem to be so.

  
“I would also very much like a haircut,” he tacked on, grinning as her face flushed a brilliant red.


End file.
